Library Books
by Satellite Heartbeats
Summary: She reads him like he is one of her many beloved library books. He won't admit it, but to him, it is the best feeling in the world. D/Hr Oneshot. Complete.


**A/N:** This is my first ever fanfic. I welcome constructive criticism in order to improve my writing. Any thoughts and opinions on how I can write better is much appreciated. Also, I'm in need of a beta so if anyone is interested, please PM me. Wow, that A/N makes me sound like a frigid bitch.

**Disclaimer:** I could go ahead and say Harry Potter was my idea and J.K. Rowling stole it from me, but that is a downright lie and I hear prison doesn't sound so nice. Instead, I decided to bastardize her characters because that's what I do best.

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_Library Books_

On the day I first met you, you were in a train compartment all by yourself, reading a dusty old tome. You were fascinating, even then.

I was hoping you would at least be a half blood, because you seemed like the kind of person I wouldn't mind having as a friend. I asked you of your lineage and you disappointed me at your reply. It was then that I stopped seeing a kind heart and a brilliant mind and saw in its place a bushy mane, buck teeth and filthy blood.

And then you just had to end up as a bloody Gryffindor. Later on in the year, you became friends with Potter and the Weasel. I did not want to hate you, but you made it very difficult to do so. You were the know-it-all who just had to impress the professors. You, with your filthy blood, managed to outshine me. Back then, I couldn't stand that. Now? Not so much.

For so long I believed that a person like you did not deserve the praise you received. For so long I believed that you were nothing more than an uncivilized ape because of your lineage. And because it was the only thing I had against you, I abused it.

Words laced with venom and insults as sharp as knives spilled from my tongue and landed on your ears. But you, with all your Gryffindor bravado, never backed down. Most of the time, you managed to fight back, even when your two shadows were not around. On the rare days that I won, the days that my words would get to you, you would hide in the library. The tears in your eyes never did spill over. Instead, you would focus your gaze on the dog-eared pages of a book, channeling your pain and your anger into the studies you took so seriously.

In our six years of bickering, hex-hurling and occasional slapping at Hogwarts, I never could find any insult better than the ones related to your blood. The mere fact that you were born to muggle parents infuriated me for six long years - sometimes because it reminded me how you were no better than the dirt beneath my shoe, but mostly because deep down, I knew that you were better than me and blood had nothing to do with it.

Not much changed after I had this epiphany. It would be impossible to erase years of animosity over a single, measly realization. You were still friends with those two gits, and I still taunted you at every opportunity I got. You fought back like I knew you would. But then, at the end of our sixth year, I started watching you. If you ever bothered to lift your head up from the book you were so thoroughly absorbed in, you would have noticed my eyes directed at you, without a hint of malice in them.

You were brilliant. Still somewhat arrogant, but brilliant nonetheless. And not just because you were smart. There was this light to you, like you exuded warmth and your eyes shone and somehow, every fiber of your being had this soft glow, burning bright when you were content and impossibly brighter when passion coursed through your veins.

And I hated you for that.

Hated that you had the luxury of smiling whereas I was trapped in a situation I never wanted to be in; cornered into taking a responsibility that was more than I could handle; forced to fight for a cause I did not believe in.

I still watched you from afar, but this time, your eyes were on me, too. You are not the brightest witch of your age for nothing. You knew that beneath my spiteful words and hate-filled sneers was pure, mind-numbing fear. You saw through the facade I so carefully constructed, you found empty thread in my words. You read me so well. I did not expect it, but I found that I was not surprised.

You were beyond observant; you were perceptive. You did not just memorize your surroundings, you analyzed and understood them. This is why you could read people easily, as if they were the many books you were often engrossed in.

Despite the madness unfurling around us, you reached for me when I was at my lowest - offering me an opportunity to extricate myself from the claws of the dark, a shot at redemption, a chance to be fucking useful for once in my life.

I took it. And never looked back.

Right now, your messy curls are splayed on my chest, your head on my heart and your finger is tracing featherlight circles around the tattoo on my inner forearm. I used to flinch when you did this, but now, my body craves for it. Soft lips dance around the scarred flesh just below my clavicle, moving slowly to my sternum, placing chaste kisses on the marred skin. One hand makes its way to my wrist, fingertips brushing over the uneven ridges braceleting it.

You read more than just books and emotions - you read me just as well.

Only you have the understanding needed to read the emotions in my eyes. Orbs that flash a bright, shining silver when fury possesses me and rational thought is ignored. Pools of obsidian that grow darker with desire the harder you bite your lip, or when your cheeks flush during one of your legendary passionate tirades. Eyes that morph into flat and dull gray mirrors, haunted by the ghosts of the past.

Only you have the patience to decipher the stories etched on my skin. A tattoo born from dark magic tells the story of a boy forced into a destiny not of his choosing, a child thrust into the shoes of a nearly irredeemable man. Chest lashes scream of the pain of a son inflicted by his very flesh and blood, a monster masquerading as his father. Wrist scars are tales of phantom manacles placed there by supposedly noble Ministry men seeking revenge against sins not of an innocent man's hands but of the hands of other who bore his family name.

With you, I am a clean slate. Even with that mark on my left forearm that should send any sensible person running for the hills, you still see me as a man without a blackened past. Before my mother died, she told me that there is nothing sweeter than forgiveness. After the war, when the ground was covered in rubble and blood an the bodies of fallen comrades, you were the only one who bothered to extend a hand towards me. And I finally understood what she meant.

It felt so fucking good because your arm, unblemished save for the healing scar left by the slices of my aunt's dagger, covered in dirt and grime, sweat and blood, was and still is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen, if only because it was the beginning of many more beautiful things shared with you. You were the last person I expected forgiveness from, but you handed it to me like it was my birthright because you knew it was exactly what I needed. Only you would know because you understood me so well.

Right now, in the pocket of my slacks that are now probably under the bed is a small box. In that box is our future, whether you say yes or no. I'd like to think that I can read you just as well as you read me, that the signs you keep sending me tell me that you are ready for this, that you want this just as much as I do.

And if I'm wrong, I hope I will have the chance to make up for it by spending a lifetime learning how to read you, too.


End file.
